Art
by elarielf
Summary: They were all artists in their own way, flawed, but beautiful.


Suzaku dances

His every movement is fluid, practiced. Lelouch had seen him duck ambushes from clumsy students as if by accident, walking (dancing) away as if nothing had happened. The only time he remembers Suzaku being graceless was after he'd been shot in the back, protecting Lelouch and a then-unknown girl from his own superiors. Now that Lelouch knows that Suzaku is the Lancelot's pilot, he can't understand how he missed it – that grace, that rhythm, that _dance_ was purely Suzaku.

Suzaku dances, and Lelouch aches to think of him dancing for the wrong people.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

Lelouch sings

Within his words lie a tone and cadence like a chant or spell. His laugh when he is happy is _allegro_, his laugh when angry is _agitato_, but all of it is _grandioso_. At his song, people win and lose battles, live and die. On a smaller, but no less important, scale, his song is what keeps Nunnally from nightmares when she wakes sweating and crying in the night. It is what keeps the student council running smoothly, and C.C.'s pizza craving sated. It is the song that destroys and builds worlds, a song he inherited from his most hated father.

Lelouch sings, and his song is simultaneously one of hope and destruction, protection and defeat; endlessly complex until even he begins to believe the lies that ring out in harmony with the truths.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

Nunnally sculpts

Her hands pretend to measure what they touch, but they change it more often than not. Under her gentle, exploring fingers, Suzaku's smile turns real, Lelouch's frown disappears, even C.C.'s eyes widen in surprise. Since they double as her eyes, Nunnally's hands are more weathered than a young girl's should be, but also more sensitive. Usually.

Nunnally sculpts her loved ones into what she needs, but she misses what they become when her hands are elsewhere.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

Euphemia paints

A world without intolerance, a Japan free of injustice, a place for Suzaku and Lelouch and Nunnally. As Euphemia speaks, Suzaku can see it, vibrant and real, as real as that summer he spent with the royal siblings. He closes his eyes and smiles, and Euphemia's words paint a perfect world for him as her hand rests on the back of his, soft and gentle. Area 11 is her easel, and Zero and Suzaku her brushes, but the paint; that which she uses up to create this world; is her power, her claim to the throne

Euphemia paints, but her resources would have only allowed her one painting. Suzaku still believes it could have been perfect; possibly even worth it.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

Schneizel conducts

His hands have never been dirtied with the tools of the trade – he has never piloted a Knightmare or fired a weapon at another living human being. Instead, under his direction, thousands, even millions have done so, and to great effect. Schneizel only sits down at a negotiating table when he can control the negotiations; he only takes lovers who follow commands and instructions well. Schneizel leaves nothing to chance, keeping a sharp eye on the orchestra of his armies and Areas, only lifting a hand to direct the flow (louder, softer, faster, keep the tempo) when necessary.

Schneizel conducts one third of the world, and participates in none of it.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

Cornelia plays

It is both a game and an impressive percussion section whenever Cornelia takes to the battlefield. She abandons the subtlety of the strings, the airiness of the winds, even the brashness of the brass; all for the instinctive beat of bullets hitting their targets, explosions blasting around her, the crash of steel-on-steel. It's simple, hearkening back to prehistory when a stick and anything that didn't move fast enough became an instrument.

Cornelia plays, and the wars of her forefathers are her playground and her instrument.

OoO-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-OoO

C.C.

C.C. has no art. She hasn't for… she's forgotten how long. Years, decades, centuries… millennia? She used to dance in the arms of her lovers, sing their praises, sculpt and shape their feelings, paint a magical world as she conducted her affairs like a game she was never tired of playing.

Now she watches silently as the artists around her attempt to create the world they desire. They will all fail, she knows, because art is only half in the control of the artist. The other half is the audience, and C.C. knows full well that this audience – the world – is a fickle group that will warp anything offered to it.

So she has given up offering her own art, keeping it locked away inside her, rotting as her flesh refuses to.


End file.
